


this is nothing, fool

by nadia5803



Series: nadia’s king lear au [9]
Category: King Lear - Shakespeare
Genre: Gay Rights, dont worry theyll figure it out, weird enemies to lovers, weird slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:47:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24282328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadia5803/pseuds/nadia5803
Summary: what will it take for the fool to finally amuse kent?
Relationships: Kent/Fool
Series: nadia’s king lear au [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612093
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	this is nothing, fool

“Kent.”

“My name is Caius.”

“Keeeeeennnnnnnnnnttttttttt.”

The Fool elongated the title on their tongue, stretching it with melodious, malicious glee as Kent — Caius, rather — sat irked at the empty table. The Fool circled, dragging their ukelele along the carpeted floor as Caius sipped from his flask.

“No drinking on the job,” they muttered, wiping their mouth as they took a seat across from Caius. “You’re not very good at this, are you? Not used to such a lowly status, I assume,” the Fool spitballed, giving the ukelele an absentminded strum. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. Only difference between a knave and a courtier is the salary.” With a strum in lieu of a drum trill, the Fool shot over a playful smile at Caius, who did not return the favor. He took another swig.

The Fool began to pluck out the melody of some tune, humming along to the muddled lyrics as Caius watched, unamused. “That’s all you’re good for? Bad music and corny jokes.”

“No, I have an astrophysics degree, dearest Kent.”

“You do?” 

“No. Of course not.” The Fool rolled their eyes, giving the uke another forceful strum before climbing atop the table. Pushed aside the empty glasses and silverware with their foot and held a hand out to Kent. Rejected with an averted gaze, the Fool shrunk backwards, humming out a tune and a few chords as they paced atop the table. “There was once a smart man by the name of Kent, rose up to a stance with dignity and yet, reduced himseld to a fool, following in the footsteps of a no-good selfish foolish—“

“What bullshit song is this?” Kent did not appear to be won by this little melody. 

“I—improvised—it,” the Fool sung, spinning in a dainty twirl as they descended from atop the table. They sat the ukelele atop a chair and jingled over to Kent. “So there.”

Kent rolled his eyes and leaned backwards. “Wasn’t very good, then. How have you kept your job for this long?”

“Brownnosing and tomfoolery, my dearest, the same as any of you lot.”

Kent scowled, pushing up his glasses as he reached for his flask. “I, for one, am not some brownnoser.”

The Fool found a half-full glass and tilted it to the sky before following suit with a swig. “And you’re certain of that? You have never, ever, once in your career in the royal executive, ever commited an act of brownnosing. Not once. Not ever.” They stuck up a pinky, an urged look etched on their face. “Ever. Pinky-promise.”

For a moment, Kent calculated the repercussions of solidifying a pinky-promise with the King’s fool and simply decided it was not worth it. He swatted a dismissive hand “Fut.” 

The Fool replied with a mischievous grin, and batted their eyelashes. “I thought good Kent would never commit such heinous acts of kiss-assery. What a scandal! It shall make the headlines tomorrow. Good and noble politician Kent— ah, wait. Suppose that’s an oxymoron. Tsk, tsk,” The Fool gave a shrug, sighing, completing a sign of the cross and splaying across the length of the table. “My, my. The boot’s rather far down your throat, is it not?”

“Are you calling me a bootlicker?” Kent asked, cocking an eyebrow and twirling his flask in his hand.

“Perhaps I am.”

“Perhaps I am not. Perhaps I risked my life to present an opposing opinion to the King and was rewarded with exile. Maybe death, too, if not that. So, perhaps, my dearest jester, my dearest  clown —“ Kent leaned forward, mocking the Fool’s prepubescent voice with a spiritless, joyless expression. “I am not a bootlicker, as much as you are not a philosopher.”

The Fool clicked their tongue, folding their hands across their lap. “I don’t claim to be such. Yes, yes, you’re right. I am but a clown. Jingle-jangle.” Propping themselves up like a toy soldier, the Fool removed their coxcomb and placed it atop Kent’s head. “And you are but reduced to both a knave and a fool.” They twirled across the carpet and curtsied over at the courtier, who removed the hat and placed it on the table. They blew a raspberry. Kent sagged in his chair. “What will make you amused?” the Fool demanded. “Just curious.”

“I’m not really one to be easily amused.”

“How about if I amuse you after great struggle as I figure out your cryptic sense of humor?”

“Sorry for not liking your bad and corny jokes. Never have. Maybe he likes them. To a degree.”

The Fool pulled beneath their eyelid and stuck their tongue out at Kent. “Nah, you just have shite taste. I bet you like that weird backwater internet crap, shit that’s gone through the fryer and all that. You like that?”

Kent snorted. “Nope.”

“I can’t really circulate memes in royal court. You’re making this rather difficult.”

He rolled his eyes and crossed his legs. “I’m not in court anymore, remember? Everything’s fair game here.”

“Whatever,” the Fool muttered, cocking their head to the side. “Sad. You were good at court. I think you’ll be missed.

Kent offered another shrug, indifferent.He sipped from the ancient flask, still nonplussed by the Fool’s longstanding comedy act. He had never been amused at court. In fact, he’d been much more preoccupied getting into catfights with the dukes, stirring up an air of drama. It was clear that the presence of Kent at court threatened such noble cream. He had not a drop of royal blood within his peasant body, merely ascended the latter through dedication and hard work.

Kent was never focused on the follies and fleeting joys of courtship. It was a survival game. The Fool knew it themselves, although they’d been much luckier to have at least a bit of noble blood running through their veins. But,even so, they’d made a quiet effort to try and amuse the unamused courtier himself, always exhausted, bored, hardened by eggshells he always found himself walking across. Nothing ever seemed to succeed, though, and even now, with a shock of pink hair and bright pinks and violets streaked across his face, a more carefree aspect upon his strict character, Kent was still unamused.

Perhaps it was but a sole issue with the Fool.

“Dance with me,” they offered, holding out another hand to Kent.

First, “No.” Followed by, “Why?” Then ended with, “There’s no music.”

The Fool shrugged. “Make it in your head.”

Reluctantly, Kent stood, but once again rejected the Fool’s hand. “I can’t dance, fool.”

“Nobody is watching,” the Fool shot back, narrowing their eyes as they bounced gracefully across the carpet.

“God is.”

“Who is God but a knave up in the sky?” The Fool pouted, crossing their arms. Their gaze drifted to Kent’s lips, then up to his eyes as he lifted the flask. “Please,” they pleaded.

Kent struck a pose. Rubbed his arm uncomfortably, then peered into the flask. The Fool’s arms sagged sadly and they marched in defeat to the table, picking up their ukelele.

“Sorry,” Kent offered, shoving the flask into his pocket. They shrugged, unbothered, singing a random string of sounds and pops as they strummed the ukelele, spinning round before picking up their bag.

“Are you sorry?” The Fool asked. They didn’t know what the question was referring to. They hoped Kent did.

“Are you kidding?” Kent raised his eyebrows and let out a sigh. “Fuck. I don’t regret anything, I don’t think. I think it’s all going to figure itself out. On its own.”

“Will it?” The Fool looked up, tilting their head to peer up to the limited expanse of the ceiling. “... Will it?” they repeated, graver than before. The Fool’s comic persona buckled beneath the weight of such a question, and Kent narrowed his eyes.

He replied with a shrug. “God knows.” He shifted his weight. “I wouldn’t be so apprehensive, Fool. You’ll be safe. You’re not the one at risk of being hung.”

“Quiet, fool,” they muttered, picking up their coxcomb and circling Kent a final time. “Your optimism will be the death of me.”

“Somebody’s glass is half-empty.”

“Look at it realistically for once. Stop walking on the eggshells and watching from behind the velvet curtain and just fucking— I don’t know, take a look at the big picture,” The Fool threw their arms up to the ceiling and locked their gaze with Kent’s. “Your loyalty is blinding you. You should have just left when you had the chance, because things aren’t about to start improving anytime soon.”

Kent folded his arms and peered at his feet. “Much too late to jump ship now.”

“No, of course not. Just never show your dumb face around these parts again and you’ll most likely be safe. You can just book it now. I’ll cover for you...” they trailed off as their eyes wandered to Kent’s lips again. Kent imperatively snapped his fingers.

“Eyes. Up here. I don’t need to be lectured by you. Sorry, I just... I don’t. I’m doing what I feel is right,” Kent said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

The Fool rubbed their eyes. “Have it your way, then.” Resigned, they fixed the coxcomb and gave Kent a firm pat on the shoulder as they drifted by gracefully. “See you later, fool.”

“Buh-bye, clown.”

Kent twirled the empty flask and tapped his foot as the door shut.


End file.
